They're Nott Twins- Outtakes
by ArrogantSlytherin
Summary: These are all the little scenes I've written but can't fit into my other story "They're Nott Twins." You should definitely read that first for any of these to make sense. The first includes graphic descriptions of gore, but the others shouldn't have much more than swearing. If blood spattered carpets and guts bother you, skip chapter one.
1. Chapter 1

**Hello, Whoever Has Found This! Quick note before you go any further: If for some mystical reason you ignored my description (shame on you), you WILL NOT understand any of the context for these shots unless you've first read my longer story They're Nott Twins. Nice try.**

 **For those of you not satisfied with the fanon provided in TNT, Le Gasp! I'm kidding. I'M not satisfied with the fanon provided in TNT. HENCE this particular batch of nonsense. I hope you enjoy.**

Chapter Content Warnings: Death (x3), Gore

Disclaimer: I own ONLY what isn't JK's. Which isn't much. And actually makes me no money.

September 1980

The night was dark and the stars were dim by the time Calla Nott finished her shopping in the only village within easy apparating distance of Nott Manor. She could have sent an elf for the skeins of wool and various seeds and bulbs sequestered in the bag swinging from her arm, but with Theodore teething and Thoros brooding, the fresh air was a welcome relief.

She fumbled through her robe pockets, fighting with the wind and her unbound hair to find her wand. The cry from one of the still dark cottages set well back from the road gave her pause. She wouldn't have noticed it at all, really, if she hadn't been hardwired to pick up anything from a whimper to a yelp since her Theodore Demetrius Creon had been born.

No lights flickered on in the little cottage's windows and Calla's scalp prickled. She tried to shake the foreboding off. Instead, the prickles spread to her neck and spine. Her legs stepped into the weedy grass of the front yard without her permission or even her full attention. Her mind was fully engaged by the little wooden door.

It swung silently inward.

The cries grew steadily louder.

Calla had her wand drawn and had stolen halfway toward the house when the woman collapsed through the doorway.

She was older than Calla Nott, though not by much, her mousy brown hair in total disarray and bloody near her left temple. The woman's skin was pale between the blooming bruises and her nose had been broken. Her shirt was in tatters over what looked like knife wounds, given the blood, but Calla only noted this subconsciously. The woman had captivating brown eyes. Eyes which were far too alert for the amount of blood on the doorstep and on the bit of rug Calla could see through the darkened entryway.

"Help."

It came out as a rasping croak. Like the breath had to fight to even escape the throat. The woman's thin hand was a manacle on Calla's wrist. Her heart thundered in her ears. She was shocked she could even hear the raspy voice over it.

"Hermione…"

The woman ignored Calla's attempts to quiet and calm her. She jerked feebly away any time Calla tried to wrap an arm around her or ease her against the door jamb.

 _For Merlin's sake!_ Calla thought, _I know seven different ways to address a visiting warlock of unknown rank from France but I can't deal with one bleeding woman!?_ Her heart still pounded away, and she could feel the strange woman's blood seeping into her robes. With a mighty heave the bloody woman jerked Calla down to lock eyes with Calla. "Save my daughter," the woman gritted out between bloody teeth. "Save…" she was panting, her face twisting, "Hermione…" The woman passed out and thudded across the threshold.

Calla had never really dealt with bleeding women before. She'd never really dealt with any woman possessing eyes this sharp. But Lady Nott's mind fixated on 'daughter' and she swallowed her nerves and stood.

Looking back on the night, she was always annoyed she hadn't run upstairs the minute the woman said 'Hermione'.

Calla's dark hair didn't really stream out behind her in a flowing black ribbon like the books said, she nearly tripped over the huddled bleeding form at the base of the stairs, and she was _positive_ the blood smears on her robes looked neither artistic nor dramatic, but Calladora Nott managed to get to the whimpering sounds in smallest bedroom on the east side of the little cottage anyway.

She was the last to arrive.

A shadowed figure, not at _all_ nefarious like the types Calla read about in her novels, stood over the crib,. He had a crying toddler thrashing in his grip and he was swearing under his breath as he tried to pry little fists from the bars. Calla never forgot the sparks jumping from the toddler's dark, curly hair.

Well, she also had fairly vivid and nightmarish memories of the moonlight glinting on the bloody knife the man drew when he finally got the girl to let go, but when she recorded the 'ghost story' for her daughter later, she focused on how valiantly the little girl fought and how even her hair fought the bad, muggle man.

Calla had only been the Lady of Nott Manor for about six years when she found her daughter, but one can't live in a Manor like the Notts' without exposing oneself to some rather elaborate tomes on the process of dismemberment. Neither is one _allowed_ to be Lady Nott without knowing basic, slightly brutal, proactive self defense.

The man lost the hand holding the knife to her first curse. He spun, dropping the little girl back into her crib as he did so, and lost the contents of his stomach… Well Calla couldn't be _sure_ in the gloom, but in her books the heroine always cursed the evil muggle or sorcerer's so that his innards scattered with a certain degree of artistry over the thick imported carpets. They also somehow managed to achieve a fair amount of dispersion with the innnards, but to be fair this _was_ her first time.

The man staggered a few seconds, a horrid gurgle followed by a moan falling from the darkness where the hood covered his face. He fell to his knees before her and she pushed all her fury over the bleeding woman downstairs, the shrieking girl in the crib, and the gall of this writhing worm of a muggle at her feet into the curse Thoros had taught her specifically for anyone who dared attack a Lady of House Nott.

The man exploded.

Calla, spattered in gore, wanted to throw up, then kill Thoros for _ever_ thinking that spell was something a lady might use in self defense, then throw up again, then hold her baby close to her and never leave his nursery. The smell was overpowering.

The little girl in the crib no longer shrieked. No. She cowered against the bars and stared at Calla with wide brown eyes. The only sounds she made in that little eternity of eye contact were hiccups, whimpers, and snifflings. Her wild brown curls were clogged with blood and unidentifiable bits of her former attacker. She wore a long blue T-shirt as a night gown, it's logo indiscernible, and what looked like matching pants (they seemed to have been originally blue as well, at least) were wadded between the mattress and the bars in the far corner.

Calla approached the little girl slowly, speaking, practically singing, in the voice that never failed to soothe little Theodore all the while. "There, there, todo es bien, little one. You've had kind of a rough night, huh? I'm Calla and your mommy told me to keep you safe for her. Your name is Hermione, right, mi pequeña princesa? We must hurry and leave now, Hermione. But don't worry. I'll keep you safe, just like I promised." The wide brown eyes were wary. One of her chubby little arms had a choke hold on a stuffed unicorn, but slowly, the other reached for her. Warmth she had only experienced when stroking Theo's hair or cuddling up to her Thoros filled her chest, nearly smothering her, as Calla gently lifted the little Hermione into her arms, carefully tucking her cloak around the girl.

Calla glanced around and winced. The muggle police weren't going to like this… the _Ministry_ even less so. Spinning on her boot heels, Calla Nott dashed downstairs, careful to shield the little girl from the destroyed and bloodied interior. Abstractly, her mind pondered how the intruder had been able to cause this much damage yet still keep the little cottage quiet enough to not raise any alarms. She pushed her ponderings to the back of her head as quickly as they appeared and whipped out her wand once she hit the cool night air in the little back garden.

The moon was black and the stars were subdued as they watched her cast various demolition curses before one final, and thorough, _incendio_.

When the muggle police and firemen arrived, the little cottage was a smoking pile of rubble. All evidence was lost.

 **So this is how our heroine met her mother. Didn't take me 9 seasons to explain, did it? Though, to be fair, it DID take like 13 chapters sooo...**

 **Translation:**

 **When Calla is trying to calm Hermione she says, "... everything is fine/good... my little princess?"**

 **reviews? Gory little meeting, don't'cha think?**


	2. Chapter 2

**Fun Fact: I wrote this shot before I wrote anything else for TNT. Wait... it might have been second or third... Basically, there was a weekend in June were I got obsessed and sleep deprived and enabled by a friend of mine and produced like thirty or so pages of just... stuff.**

 **Here. Have some stuff.**

September 1991

Hermione was quite thoroughly tired of Hogwarts and said so to her Papa at least once in all her letters home. Hogwarts was just so _tame_. They were learning spells she and Theo had discovered _ages_ ago in the family library and spending _weeks_ on them! All the homework was a mere _foot_ of parchment though she could have easily produced her own _height_ in details and history of basic transfiguration and its effects on wizarding society. Papa had actually _added on_ to the library for Theo's Transfiguration binge when they were eight.

Hermione and Theo had been surrounded by people underestimating them their whole lives of tutors, so under better circumstances she wouldn't have minded much. But the circumstances weren't better. She couldn't be with Theo at night because they had to sleep in different dorms. She had to share her room with petty, ignorant girls who were all _far_ too interested in her brother too few enjoyed reading (Millie had good days and Daphne only read fashion drivel). The teachers were all impossible and openly played favorites. By far the worst, though, were the Gryffindors.

She and Theo had known they'd be in Slytherin. They'd looked forward to it. Some nights they'd even been able to coax stories from their father about the dungeons and the windows that looked out into the Black Lake. More often than not, however, the twins would be sent straight off to the library to hunt their answers down through the thickets of information among the cracked leather and old parchment which gave off such lovely smells. They'd done cursory research on the other houses, of course, just for context, but they'd always come back to Slytherin.

What the books only _hinted_ at was how truly _awful_ the other houses could be. Especially the crimson cretins in Gryffindor. The youngest Weasley boy who tagged after Potter was the worst. He'd somehow achieved the quintessential balance between ignorance, intolerance, stubbornness, and obnoxiousness. Hermione and Theo decided after the first _night_ to support Draco's obsession (within reason) if it meant the auburn atrocity would also suffer and the dynamic Lion duo gave endless opportunities to make their lives difficult.

They seemed equally capable of skiving out of trouble, which was the problem.

Thus, Hermione found herself, her twin, and her oldest friend at a dead end with Filch and his mangy cat after them. Potter and Weasley had gotten away. _Again_.

"Do you suppose they'll expel us?" Theo asked idly, though Hermione was familiar enough with the set of his shoulders and the darting quality in his dark blue eyes to know he was nervous.

"They _can't_. My father won't let them," Draco snapped back. He was much less adept at controlling himself under pressure and seemed inches from bolting pell mell down the corridor.

Hermione grit her teeth against an eye roll. Hogwarts was tedious, but the library here was better than the one at home and she wasn't going to put Theo through Papa's disappointment. "Shut up and let me think the _both_ of you! We are only out of bed, they can't prove we were doing anything else, or went anywhere _restricted_. We can't prove beyond our own testimonies Potter and Weasley were out of bed too... If Filch catches us he has to take us to Snape, which, won't necessarily be pleasant…"

"He's my _godfather_! He can't hurt us!"

"Shut up Draco," Theo murmured, his eyes on his sister's and practically glowing.

"But Filch only has the word of his stupid cat… And everyone knows he's paranoid… If he can't _find_ us he can't _punish_ us. He didn't see either of you did he?" Her eyes bored into Draco. Theo was better than even she at not being seen.

"I don't think so," Draco whined.

"Then we can still get out. Theo… do you think we can do a Disillusionment?"

Her twin's eyes were reluctant, but after a moment he shrugged. "Experimenting with magic gives us a reason, if anything."

Hermione nodded once. "Then do me first."

Filch was so close they could hear his uneven breathing and limping scuffle. Theo's eyes darkened in displeasure, but he didn't object. He would have preferred his first attempt at an advanced spell to have a more blond subject, but knew better than to say so. He took a deep breath and rapped Hermione on the head once with his wand. She felt the cold ooze down and over her, but it didn't seem to want to spread to the right half of her body. Theo's eyes widened, horrified. "We're _so_ dead…"

Hermione raised her hands before her eyes, she could see three of the fingers holding her wand in her right hand and only her thumb on her left. Theo was right. They _were_ dead.

Draco panicked openly now. "What did you _do_!?" he hissed, "Snape'll kill us for sure! Not to _mention_ what your father'll do! This is all Potter's fault! If he hadn't challenged me to that _duel_ …"

"You challenged him," Theo reminded the boy absently, as he carefully prodded her and pet her hair reassuringly like they had when they were little.

"He _made_ me challenge him! With his _scar_ and his stupid, arrogant _face…_ "

"This is _not_ the time, Malfoy!" Hermione hissed as Filch rounded the corner, wheezing.

"A HA!" he crowed, his untempered glee making his already ugly face uglier. "Caught you, you little delinquents! And attempting dangerous spells too!" He limped toward them, his rheumy eyes thrilled with their assessment of the half visible Hermione. "Thought I wouldn't catch you! Thought you could just tear around and destroy school property! HA! We'll see what the deputy headmistress has to say!"

Hermione's eyes, well the visible eye, flashed to Theo's. He was way ahead of her, a smile barely brushing the corners of his mouth. She released a relieved breath. Now they just had to keep Draco in line.

Which was not going to be easy. A cornered Draco never was.

"What?!" the blond yelped, before Hermione elbowed him hard in the ribs. He yelped again, but quieted at her glare.

Filch wasn't paying very close attention. He was fully occupied with his gloating. "Three nasty little snakes slithering the hallways! Attacked a student! Caused extensive damage to school property! It's Christmas come early! Hurry up, you!" He snarled back, a grin stretching his thin lips over crooked yellow teeth. "Gotta get along to the sentencing. They'll probably expel you all! Three less to deal with! Or better they'll finally let me handle punishments! Dumbledore is too soft..."

Hermione nodded to Theo. It would be more natural if he began. They couldn't count on Draco, so it wouldn't be _perfect_ , but it would be better than the McGonagargoyle.

"He's taking us to _McGonagall_ , did he say?" Theo hissed, just loud enough for Filch to think he heard them talking, but not too loud that he could make out the words. They needed him suspicious first.

It worked.

Filch shot them a glare over his shoulder, but kept walking. He wasn't muttering about chains anymore.

"Yeah," Hermione whispered back. She wasn't looking at her twin. She was yelling 'keep quiet' to Draco as loud as she possibly could with her one visible eye. "We're lucky, but shut up or he'll hear you!"

"At least he isn't taking us to _Snape_!"

"Shh!" Hermione hissed. Draco wore a mean smile he was smart enough to hide before Filch spun around to glare at them. Theo quailed passably before his imagined terribleness, but Draco had smelt victory. They'd have to compensate for him.

The cogs in Filch's brain obviously chugged through his options. "Little snakes, aren't they, my sweet?" He murmured to his stupid cat. Hermione hadn't noticed the dusty thing trailing along behind the little group like a rear guard. "Little snakes musn't be taken to the lion tamer should they? Lion tamers can't deal with snakes…" Hermione tried to blanch her face.

Theo burst out, "But that's where you _said_ you'd take us!"

" _Silence_! No, no, my sweet. It's off to Severus for this lot… Yes, Snape will do nicely… He always had the right idea about discipline.. Yes…"

Hermione wasn't satisfied with the caretaker's convictions. "No! Please! Not Professor Snape!" Theo sent her a look for her gauche theatrics, but picked up the thread anyway. He really was a good brother.

"You _said_ we were going to Professor _McGonagall_! You _said_ she was in charge of this kind of thing!" Filch had said no such thing, of course, but given the way he'd gone on about how he wanted to be in charge of punishment, it seemed the right place to prod. Theo had always been better at rooting out the best angles to exploit. "If Professor McGonagall is in charge you can't take us to another teacher!" He'd leveled enough outrage and indignation into his voice to get Filch's dander up and make him contradictory. He'd take them to Snape just because Theo had all but ordered him _not_ to.

"I'm sure Professor Snape will be very interested in why members of his _own house_ don't think he has the right to discipline them. Now move!" Filch herded the three smug first years along in the opposite direction behind Mrs. Norris with her dust colored tail held high.

"My father is going to _kill_ me," Draco mock wailed to himself. The three exchanged smirks at Filch's mean snigger, before returning the woebegone looks to their faces. It wasn't the McGonagargoyle, but it was _still_ Snape.

The Potion Master's office was as horribly fascinating as his classroom. The stone walls were dark and dank, the fire in the grate casting more shadows than light. The three candles on the desk had melted and mutated into a misshapen lump of towering drips and liquid valleys. The tiny flames cast light over the papers Snape marked when they trooped in behind Filch. Snape never looked happy, but at least he only looked bored and annoyed now.

"Pardons Professor," Filch said, his respectful tone too gleeful to be effective. "But I caught these three in a second floor corridor experimenting with dark magic, so of course I brought them straight to you. I also have reason to believe they damaged the Trophy Room."

Snape's boredom and annoyance intensified. "Yes. Thank you, Mr. Filch. I will deal with them accordingly," Filch didn't move. Snape's black eyes flicked from the three Slytherins to the caretaker's beaming face. "Perhaps you could go and see if there are any other students… wandering." His voice was deadly soft, but Hermione felt better with him than with the prejudiced old lioness. He _probably_ wouldn't expel them… Filch stamped out, sulking.

"Would any of you care to explain why Miss Nott is only half visible?"

"That was _my_ fault Professor, sir," Theodore stepped forward.

"No it wasn't! I _told_ you to do it!" She was not _about_ to let him take the fall for this.

"Silence, Miss Nott," Snape said. His voice still soft. Hermione fell silent.

"Hermione and I thought we'd cast disillusionment charms to get past Mr. Filch, sir. We've read about them, you see, and they seemed simple enough… But in the heat of the moment, with Mr. Filch around the corner, I failed to execute the charm correctly, sir."

Snape leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. His black eyes swept over Hermione before one of his hands produced a wand from his robes and flicked it at her.

She reappeared instantly.

"Thank you, sir," her tone only held the slightest trace of the begrudging feelings in her head.

Snape seemed to be able to sense them, but turned to Draco. "Mr. Malfoy, you are neither partially disillusioned, nor implicated in the illicit casting. Perhaps you'd care to tell me your part in this ill timed excursion?"

"I just came to watch, sir. They said they'd teach me," Draco told his shoes.

"Mr. Filch mentioned damage to the Trophy Room. Tell me, Mr. Malfoy, did your travels this evening happen to meander in that direction?" Snape's eyes glittered. He knew something.

"No, sir," Draco replied stoutly, this time meeting the Professor's gaze and holding it.

Snape withdrew his scrutiny and leaned back once more. Through the dark curtains of his hair, his black eyes moved restlessly between the three of them, probing constantly. "I find I am disinclined to believe the three of you," he declared quietly. "If you three were the only ones wandering the second floor corridors this evening, yet never came near the Trophy Room on the fourth floor, which Mr. Filch said was 'torn up', or near the third floor corridor on the right hand side, which I _know_ was tampered with… I'm sure clever students like you seem to be so misguided in thinking you are, can understand my dilemma."

"Potter and Weasley were out too!" Draco burst out. Hermione sighed and reminded herself Draco was her oldest friend outside of her brother and one does not beat sense into one's oldest friends. Especially in plain view of authority figures.

Snape pounced. "You have _proof_ of this?"

Hermione silently begged Merlin and Salazar for Draco to not be stupid enough to tell Snape about the intended duel.

Merlin and Salazar seemed to be listening because Draco muttered, "No, sir, not exactly."

Snape regarded him coolly for a few moments, before moving to Theodore. "And you, Mr. Nott? Do you have any light to shed on my dilemma?"

"No, sir, Professor. It's like I said. Hermione and I snuck out with Draco to practice disillusioning in the second floor corridor. We were just starting when Filch waylaid us and delivered us to you." Hermione wanted to smirk. Her brother truly was a genius. Draco shot him a betrayed look Theo didn't acknowledge.

Snape considered him for a moment more before switching to Hermione. "And you, Miss Nott? You have nothing further to add?"

Hermione made her eyes wide. "Sir! The third floor corridor on the right hand side is forbidden to all who do not wish to die a very painful death!" she heard her brother choke back a snort next to her, "Sir, I most _certainly_ do not want to die a very painful death. I'm a _Slytherin_ , sir!" Snape's cheek twitched. Theo had coughing fit into a handkerchief he produced from his pocket. "Sir," she continued more carefully, because _somehow_ Potter and Weasley'd squirmed their way out of this and it could not be allowed. "You say the forbidden corridor was tampered with, which means it was tampered with," she stated plainly. Snape watched her, his face a perfect mask. "Sir… if they've tampered there once… perhaps it is conceivable they may tamper there again? I know dull minds once provoked to danger, often return… I understand it's a component of bravery?" They stared levelly at each other for several seconds longer than what might be considered normal before Hermione demurred, "Of course, I might be wrong," She turned meek eyes to the floor. The room breathed. Her eyes flashed up to his under her lashes, "But I doubt you are, sir."

All breathing stopped.

 **Originally the twins and Draco were going to be much better friends, and the story was going to focus more on them as a Slytherin trio rather than Harry's... Harry-ness. However, my beta is a Hufflepuff and doesn't like it when Voldy wins outright (or Draco in general) and I do try to keep her happy as she is the one suffering through my every sentence... So that plot got shot. It's a shame, really. I sort of liked how Snape turned out here. He's kinda an asshole in TNT... Thoughts?**


	3. Chapter 3

**Due to the major outcry, and several key people... I have decided to return all of the Calla shots to you. You're welcome. Due to my general laziness, this is essentially Chapters 1-5 from the original Twins. DO NOT LET THIS CONFUSE YOU!**

 **Allow me to repeat myself**

 **DO NOT LET THIS CONFUSE YOU. THIS IS NO LONGER THE OFFICIAL PLOT OR CHARACTER ARCING FOR TWINS. I HAVE CHANGED IT.**

 **THIS IS FUNZIES AND BECAUSE SlytherinFlower gave me the most amazing review and reason to do this...**

* * *

Chapter 1 Calla's Burden

Calla didn't bother with cleaning charms for her bloodied robes when she landed on the front walk of Nott Manor. Her traveling companion hadn't enjoyed their first time side-along apparating and struggled mightily to wrestle free of Calla's arms and robes.

"Oh no you don't," she muttered, catching the little girl firmly about her waist, then shoved her bloody, disheveled hair behind her ear with her wand hand, nearly putting her eye out in the process. She huffed in frustration, tucked her wand behind her ear, settled the girl more firmly on her hip, (the girl was not interested in being accommodating with this new arrangement, crying all the louder), and yelled, "HISSY!" above the din.

The older nanny- elf appeared immediately, pointed ears and bugged grey eyes alert at the sight of her gore-spattered mistress and the screaming, equally gory toddler.

"What can Hissy do for mistress?" she asked politely, sketching a curtsy with the neat edge of her pristine tea towel.

"Prepare another nursery chamber, please, next to little Theodore's." The ebony front doors swept open and a black haired wizard with grey gathering around his temples swept down the front steps toward her. Calla shot him a smile before readjusting her fussy burden and adding to the elf, "Would you be so good as to heat up a bottle of milk and some other food, dear…? I'm not really sure what she'd like to eat but maybe she's hungry…" The elf gave the toddler an examining look, glanced at Calla with poorly disguised incredulity then disapparated. "What!? She might be hungry," Calla muttered to herself before smoothing her expression to face her husband.

Thoros, for his part, never let his face betray him, but his voice was less obedient. "Good evening dearest," he began, brushing the customary kiss against her cheekbone before drawing back and touching the flakes of dried blood he'd acquired. "How was your shopping trip?" His eyes flicked toward the screaming girl for a moment to let her know that he could not care less about the garden seeds, given her appearance and companion. "Dare I say it was unexpectedly fruitful?"

Calla beamed while the little girl increased the volume of her screams and thrashed harder. "Oh, Thoros! I've had the most shocking and exciting evening!" She waited a moment for the customary softening of Thoros' face anytime she expressed enthusiasm for anything. It was slower in coming than she'd hoped. "I was on my way to the apparation point when I heard this little one crying…"

"My dear, _kidnapping_ is not an acceptable response to..."

She shot him a glare and caught the smile he had to suppress, despite the strain in his voice. Whatever unease or annoyance he felt over her and the toddler's appearances, her sass was some point of comforting normality. "I didn't _finish_ , Thoros. I heard this one crying and when I looked toward the little hovel, a woman had just collapsed on the doorstep! She was calling for help!" Her husband's eyebrows were migrating north from his dark blue eyes. She hurried on, "The mother was covered in blood from any number of cuts, but she still had the strength to grab me and demand I save her daughter." Thoros' mouth was tightened. "I ran upstairs and found this awful muggle man looming over her! I used that curse you taught me and destroyed him!" her excited smile twisted and she glanced down at herself, seeming to notice the human remains for the first time. Thoros suppressed an eye roll at the innocent surprise that flitted across her features and flicked a cleaning charm at his wife and the girl.

Her shining brown eyes met Thoros' dubious ones and dimmed. When he spoke, even the girl quieted slightly to hear. "Let me see if I have this straight, Calla… You went into a muggle home, one you _knew_ to be dangerous-"

"It was a muggle with a knife, Thoros, I was _hardly_ in any danger." His inclined his head slightly, but his eyes remained less than enthusiastic.

"To rescue a muggle girl," his voice clutched its velvet veneer.

Calla's brown eyes lit and she drew herself to her full, if still inferior, height. "Touch her!" She shoved the kicking toddler toward him. His face twisted in revulsion. "Thoros this child is _not_ a _muggle_ ," her brown eyes were huge in her earnest explanation. He continued to refuse. She returned the girl to her thoroughly bruised hip. "Her hair was shooting _green sparks_ in her distress. Sparks! They _**had**_ to have been budding magic! I _know_ I can feel her aura! And her name is _Hermione_."

Thoros squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, took a deep cleansing breath, and continued, "Hermione, then. A Greek name, I believe. Meaning earthy… perhaps interpreted as muddy…" he muttered. Calla had been a mother for two years and could hear quite well despite prolonged exposure to screaming.

She smacked him.

Thoros jerked back, his eyes wide. "Her name is Hermione Calladora Melanthe Trastamara i Nott," Calla declared, one fist on her hip. The knuckles white under her olive skin. "She's _mine_. Her mother said I must protect her, and by Merlin, Circe, and Samhain, I **will**. Even if her adoption means protecting her from _you_ , Thoros Nott." Hugging the precious, still kicking and screaming, bundle to her chest, Calla shoved past him.

Thoros spun after her. He was too well bred to sputter, but if there was a refined, gentlemanly way of sputtering, he did it. "Darling, I realize you've had a rather trying evening, but adoption?! Of a muggle?!"

" _Hermione_ has had a trying evening as well. I think she'd like a bath and some sleep," Calla replied primly, still walking.

Thoros paused, rethought his approach in the space of two steps then hurried after his retreating wife. He caught up in time to guide her through the front door, his courtesies very strictly back in place. "The little girl is not the only one who needs a bath, Dearest," the teasing note in his voice the product of extreme effort. He kissed Calla's cheek again, and felt her relax slightly beneath his hand.

Calla glanced at him then at the furious child in her arms, her brow furrowed.

"Actually, Thoros, I could do with a glass of wine… the Málaga Trasañejo?" She watched him through her lashes.

He'd given up too easily.

"Of course," he replied, the picture of mannerly consideration and accommodation. "Hissy!" he called. At the nanny elf's appearance, he made carefully expressive eye contact, that Calla caught, "If you would please take the child to the prepared chamber? She may require a bath,"

"And feeding," Calla interjected.

"… yes…" Thoros said, then cleared his throat and continued, "If you might also attempt to calm her? I understand it's been a difficult evening."

The matronly elf nodded sagely and held out her arms for Hermione. Hissy was barely bigger than the little girl, but she managed her efficiently enough and disapparated.

"Thank you, Thoros," Calla murmured, still vigilant.

"Of course, my love. Now for your drink." He ushered her through the front parlor and into the private sitting room, unclasping her cloak and handing it off to an elf who promptly vanished. "Perhaps, we should check and make sure the girl does not have some other family looking for her?" he said as they went.

 _There it is_ , Calla thought. "It was her mother's dying wish that _I_ protect Hermione, Thoros," Calla shot back.

"Yes, darling, I remember," he replied, his hands stroking over her hair and shoulders. He used the subtlest of pressures to settle her onto the settee. "I am just thinking of any complications confused or angry relations might present. They've lost the girl's mother and father as well, you know. They might be driven to… _imprudent_ measures from the shock and grief of it all."

An elf appeared with a dusty bottle and two glasses, poured, bowed, then vanished. Calla didn't fully process what he'd said, her brain occupied with the sight and keeping the slaver for the soothing beverage inside her mouth. "Yes, of course," she replied, batting at his hands so she could retrieve her own glass.

Thoros chuckled and settled into the chair beside her. His eyes were almost smug amidst the seeming adoration he sent her while the two sipped for a moment.

Warmth spread through her chest and abdomen and shakes she didn't realize she'd had stilled. His words began to stab into her consciousness through her comfortable haze. Calla's brown eyes snapped to his dark blue ones. "What do you mean the relatives might come after her? What measures? I didn't steal her!"

"Of course not, my love, but muggles don't tend to understand death vows… You didn't exactly take a copy of her family tree… We have no way of knowing if she's alone in this world."

Calla turned pale then red. "It doesn't matter! She's _mine_! It was a death vow, Thoros! If they come and take her, I'll… I'll…"

Thoros cut soothingly across her tirade, setting his cup on its saucer and placing a comforting hand on hers. "Of course, dearest. I would never risk you losing your magic. Don't fret! Even if there _are_ distraught relatives desperate to find their niece or granddaughter, I doubt the old magick will hold a vow made between a muggle and a witch…"

Calla turned worried eyes on him. "Distraught relatives?"

"Don't concern yourself, mo ghràdh **[Scottish Gaelic for my love]**. I'm sure that just because one muggle can brutally murder its own kind and a toddler, the relatives of a kidnapped child won't be _too_ vicious… Though… I wouldn't want them near our Theodore…" Thoros purred, tasting victory.

There was a shuffling, sniffling sound from the doorway. A thin, pale, little boy, his dark curly hair standing up in random places, appeared, yawning and rubbing his eyes, the effort almost knocking him over. His robe hung off his shoulders and he was dragging a black teddy along with him by the neck. Calla was out of her chair and smothering him with hugs in seconds. Thoros sighed at the lost momentum then smiled at his son.

"To what do we owe this late night pleasure, Theodore?"

"Hissy loud," came the muffled answer from somewhere in the flurry of Calla's arms, lips, and hands.

"Oh I'm sorry, guapito **[little handsome one]**! That's Hermione, mijo **[my son]**. She's going to be your new sister; won't that be lovely?"

 _Bloody Merlin's balls. Damn it all._ Thoros grit his teeth and braced himself against his son and heir's shining blue eyes which appeared from under Calla's arm through the screen of her wavy black hair.

"Really?" his high little voice asked breathlessly.

"Well, Theodore, your mother and I were still discussing…"

"Yes guapito! And she's just your age! You two will be the best of friends and you'll have someone to play with, won't you?"

Theo's eyes had achieved a size and happiness never before seen by Thoros, who could feel a migraine growing.

"Uh huh an' in the gawden?"

"We don't know…" Thoros tried, but Calla was quicker.

"YES, my beautiful brilliant boy! And we can teach her our games and you can teach her how to plant the flowers and feed the ducks! Won't that be fun?"

"Yes, Momma," Theo looked like he wanted to continue but he was cut off by his own jaw-breaking yawn and drooping eyes.

"Calla, why don't you take our little prince to bed. Perhaps you could tell him a story…" Thoros said, quietly resigning himself to a cease-fire in their discussion on the kidnapped muggle turned "magical" girl. If Calla got her nonsense into his son's head, he'd be training it out of the boy for months. However, there would be no reasoning with either of them in this state.

Calla and Theodore disappeared in a flurry of skirts and Spanish endearments. Thoros turned to the sideboard. Picking up the blown glass container of Ogden's Finest, he poured two fingers into a crystal tumbler and drank it in one. As the familiar burn worked down his throat, he stalked off to bed and Calla. Perhaps in the morning, when her traumatic evening and the shock of it all had worn off, she'd see sense. He wrapped himself in such comforting thoughts as much as his silk sheets that night.

He should have known better.

* * *

Chapter 2 The Trouble With Tea

Thoros, in the tradition of all great Notts before him, was only interested in having _one_ child. Two children in a manor was… excessive.

Whatever sympathies he might have nurtured for the fuzzy headed mudblood toddler Calla couldn't seem to live without, evaporated within the first week. Or, more accurately, as soon as it became clear he would not be able to bend his biddable little wife on the issue of the child's 'adoption.' Honestly, Thoros was baffled. They _had_ an heir. Any idiot knows flooding the market with a product automatically lowers its value! The wizarding world had only _ever_ been privileged with _one_ Nott per generation!

Of course, it didn't help that the little girl had a tendency to perform accidental magic almost daily while Theodore hadn't so much as blown something up in a tantrum. Not that his son _had_ many tantrums... And not that Thoros was complaining… but… A squib child had lost Thoros his first wife, he was not interested in losing Calla over the same problem. He had grown inescapably fond of her.

 _Despite_ her unfortunate habit of collecting mudblooded strays.

A crash rent the air. Thoros lurched up from the book in his lap, his eyes searching for Theo's dark clump of curly hair or any sign of distress that might have triggered the noise. He caught a glimpse of a mud brown mop of curls and the dirty hem of a pale yellow sundress whisk past the door and ground his teeth. Theo shot after her whooping. Thoros contained an ungentlemanly groan. He needed to have a discussion with Calla about the girl.

~*TNT*~

Calla had been fluttering and fussing all morning over Theo and Hermione. It was the first playdate the little family had had since Hermione's gory arrival. As usual, all Calla really accomplished was generally getting in the elves' way as Hissy and a smaller elf, Rawlly, wrangled the two toddlers into a state of presentability (it was Hermione's second outfit and Theo's third). Calla cheerfully babbled on about the latest gossip from the Prophet, the Malfoys, and wouldn't a marriage between Hermione and little Draco be simply _darling_?

They'd had pancakes that morning at Theo's request. Both children had eaten two apiece and in the process covered every available inch of their bodies and their immediate surroundings in raspberry syrup. By the end of the meal, Thoros was beside himself trying to get Calla to let the elves handle cleaning the table and the children; Calla was beside herself declaring that the two were perfectly darling and if they wanted more syrup, by Merlin, they could have some; and the two-year-olds were beside themselves discovering the hair styling potential in syrup.

The Malfoys arrived promptly at 2 pm. Calla was upstairs with the children so Thoros was forced to receive them. He was only mostly uncomfortable with trying to provide chit chat that distracted from the occasional shriek or squeal from the depths of the Manor.

Thoros was completely out of polite conversation topics by the time his wife, heir, and the girl floated down the stairs with deceptive grace. From her angelic serenity and sedate pace, Calla looked as though she'd never rushed a moment in her life. Hermione and Theo, though graceful in a wobbly sort of way, were struggling with the temptation to simply slip from step to marble step on their bottoms as per usual.

Lucius and Narcissa's eyes zeroed in on Hermione from where they stood in the traditional 'receiving-the-Lady-of-the-House' posture. Narcissa's expression was speculative as she took in the mussed dark blue ribbons and little white pinafore, but Lucius glanced to Thoros in confused wariness after a quick assessment. Draco started babbling the moment he saw them and the three promptly plunked down on the floor to debate the relative merits of their stuffed animals.

Narcissa kissed both of Calla's cheeks declaring, "You look so well, my dear! You've clearly taken to Motherhood with great enthusiasm."

Calla demurred prettily as Lucius bent to kiss her extended hand. Thoros ushered her toward the chaise he'd claimed, acutely aware that his wife did not excel in the verbal sparring Narcissa loved so much. He did appreciate the distance a foreign wife afforded in terms of in-laws, but no one not raised to it could match a Black in conversation. A relatively _sane_ Black, anyway.

"Calla does love children," Thoros replied when they'd all settled. He met Narcissa's eyes as he wrapped an arm around his young bride. Watching a verbal slaughter was not the way he'd hoped to spend the afternoon.

Narcissa smiled return. "Children are such a blessing, Thoros, I quite admire Calla's aptitude for it," It wasn't the sheathing of claws he'd hoped for but Thoros took what comfort he could from the gesture... Until Narcissa turned to Calla again. "Theo can't be more than two and a half and yet you've not _only_ successfully regained your pre-pregnancy figure, but you've _also_ found time to give Thoros _another_ child _entirely_ without society's notice!" Thoros grit his teeth, but Narcissa wasn't done. "Tell me, Calla, dear, what _ever_ is your secret?" The blonde woman's grey-blue eyes glittered above the gilded rim of her cup. Even Lucius seemed taken aback by his wife's uncharacteristic descent into the single entendre.

"Why Narcissa! If I told you it would hardly remain a secret, would it?" Thoros stared at his wife, whose eyes now flashed challenge at the older woman. He returned his china cup to its saucer just to do something with his hands.

"Darling, I'm sure this one instance of basking in your success can _hardly_ expose you to ridicule," Narcissa parried. He shot a meaningful glare at their guests. They ignored him.

"Who indeed could ridicule a dutiful, pureblooded witch for performing admirably her duties as a wife?" Lucius put in silkily. He took a lingering sip of tea, his eyes tracing over Hermione's frizzy brunette head and Theo's curly black one.

"Oh Calla, I hope you don't think I've descended to pettiness! Why you have succeeded in providing a spare! I couldn't be more delighted for you!" Thoros found himself reflecting on why he kept the Malfoys' visits to a minimum. The silver couple had a wicked way of building off each other and steering conversations when necessary. They were like twin cobras that way. He fought down the urge to sequester his wife and son in his study, leaving their guests to pick over the little girl in peace.

Calla was visibly ruffled but retained some degree of calm. She took a fortifying sip before replying, "Such high praise, Narcissa. I declare myself quite content knowing I've bested you, in at least _something…_ " another sip. Narcissa's eyes narrowed infinitesimally. Thoros desperately wished tea could be over. Pureblooded witches were somehow thrice as vicious when hot beverages, dainty sandwiches, and biscuits were involved.

Narcissa's chuckle was like a building storm, and she set down her tea in favor of stroking the pale blonde head that passed while chasing after the other two children. "Humility is a virtue, my mother used to say. And, of course, a witch's virtue is one of her highest treasures… That and loyalty to her husband..."

Calla's responding laugh was tinkling. "Why Narcissa! It's the 80s, not the 1800s! While I can't but agree that loyalty to one's husband is vital, I _hardly_ think such archaic terms as 'virtue' must be counted among a woman's treasures!"

If they were talking about what Thoros was pretty sure they were talking about, he would cheerfully sink into the carpet. He was traditional, yes, but if they started throwing out words like _maidenhead_ … over _tea_ no less...

Lucius's smile steadily progressed towards strained when Narcissa pounced. "Perhaps we shall have to disagree on this… Blacks, and Notts I do believe, put a _great_ deal of stock in tradition and… purity." Thoros froze. Calla only bristled further. "But let us talk no more of such sensitive topics!" Which meant she was about to talk more, though indirectly, about such sensitive topics, "I must say that I adore the way your elves arranged your hair this morning, Lady Nott! I can't imagine curly hair is easy to maintain, though, of course, I've never seen your coiff so much as frizzed… It's always so sleek and dark." another sip of tea over the thrown gauntlet.

Calla rallied in turn. "Why Narcissa! How am I to maintain my virtuous humility, as you've inspired me to do when this unchecked praise will turn a lady's head! I mean, be fair, my dear!" Calla laughed lightly once more, over _what_ Thoros couldn't even _begin_ to guess, before she continued, "My family in Andalucia are, of course, privileged with wavy hair. _Everyone_ from House Trastamara _is,_ so we've had centuries of practice taming it. Even the magical painters during the Renaissance tried and failed to capture our particular shade and texture of dark brown hair. Why, the Great Wizard Da Vinci himself declared us beyond the mundane confines of art! Our little Hermione's hair is a touch more unruly than mine was at her age, but I'm sure that's just the extra spirit she got from Thoros," Calla ran a possessive hand lightly over his shoulder, drawing attention to the dark hair that curled just above his collar. If he hadn't known better, the gesture was also a warning to keep him silent. His cheek twitched.

"Of course, how silly of me," Narcissa murmured. "It's wonderful that your daughter takes after your side of the family. My Draco is every inch a Malfoy… Though I do harbor fond dreams his eyes are the trademark Black silver. It's such a shame the children haven't had a chance to meet all together before this…" Her Black eyes had lost their sharp iciness as she took another sip of tea.

Calla hummed a prim, but empty, agreement. In the silence, Thoros wondered if Calla was even aware of how rare it was for the famed Lady Malfoy to back down, genuinely or not, from anything. He was positive his wife wasn't enjoying this nearly as much as she should be. They hadn't seen the Malfoys since Theodore's 'Nott heir' ritual on his seventh new moon, and since Calla hadn't been _pregnant_ and the little mudblood hadn't _been_ there, and _couldn't_ be more than six months Theo's junior…to then pontificate on the trademark Trastamara appearance, and then so casually tie it to the girl's… Thoros had another slightly distracting reminder in his gut of the many reasons he'd chosen her to be his. He sighed at the faintest hint of pain in Narcissa's expression, and the less faint air of outrage on Lucius's. He'd _told_ Calla they couldn't keep the little mudblood, and yet, here she was paving the way so she could. _This,_ was why he found her so enchanting.

Calla was prim, her back putting ramrods the world over to shame. There was a shriek and a splash from the open French doors that lead to the garden and she excused herself to investigate.

Thoros called for firewhiskey in her absence.

"So she _is_ yours," Lucius began, the bluntness combined with the burn of the spirits putting Thoros on the defensive. The direct approach grated on his nerves. The man was practically thirty years his junior but didn't have the decency to be _delicate_ with an implied attack on his _House_? No. There were lines. Thoros didn't usually put much stock in society's dictates, but this was ridiculous.

"Calla struggled to bring her into the world," His mouth declared. His mind tripping over itself to catch up. "For months we thought we'd lose her so we decided not to introduce her to society. But she's growing stronger, despite her birth. It's amazing, really. With her improving health, little Theodore seems to improve as well." He stared the man down over his crystal tumbler, warnings flashing from his blue eyes.

"So you've just sequestered her away for _three years_?" Lucius was implacable, all semblance of reserve evaporating. Narcissa seemed carved from disapproving stone, her lips a pale line at her husband's lack of decorum.

"I find there's little I _wouldn't_ do for my child's health," he replied. It was close to the truth… He didn't particularly care for the mudblood, but he _would_ do anything for his heir. Let them discuss it bluntly, then, if the man refused reason.

Lucius glanced at his wife, his pale skin becoming paler at the subtle vitriol in her expression. Thoros held in a chuckle. The Malfoy couple held each other's gaze for a moment longer before Lucius turned back, his social mask firmly in place. "I quite agree, old friend. Children are treasures to be protected. Yours, in particular, seems… delightful..."

Thoros would have been cynically entertained if he wasn't so done with the whole mess. "Lucius, I believe I'm offended!" he purred. "I haven't lost my senses _entirely_! Of _course_ the girl hasn't started classes… I know that probably violates some Societal regulation somewhere, about when a child must be introduced… but with her delicate health… I hardly think posture, marriage, and curtsies are her foremost concern." He threw back the firewhiskey more flippantly than he felt.

"But it soon will be, Thoros," Narcissa stated coolly. "The House of Nott hasn't had a daughter in over a century. She will be exceedingly powerful, and a princess, by rights… She must be taught..."

"There are _standards_!" Lucius cut in.

Thoros's eyes were nearly black as he met Lucius's. "She's three. Do not presume to tell me how to raise my-" His mounting annoyance was cut short at the arrival of three muddy, squealing toddlers. The hours of effort that had gone into Theo and Hermione's appearances utterly destroyed. Mud covered Draco head to toe and the other two were soaked. Hermione's hair ribbons were gone. Before he could sputter out an objection, Thoros was juggling wriggling bodies as his son and his wife's little nuisance tried to shove toads into his hands. Calla entered last, every hair in place, with dirt under her fingernails and on the hem of her slightly dampened robes. She looked pleased with herself.

Distracted as he was, Thoros wasn't quite sure what happened, next. Suddenly he found himself face to muddy face with the little girl, his hands wrapped around her waist as he attempted to keep her off his lap. In a second of eye contact, everything he knew shattered around him.

Her magic… He could feel her magic! It felt like… Well, it felt like his own as it mingled tentatively with his. Raw, certainly, but familiar and strong.

Astounded as he was, he barely heard Narcissa. "Thank you for the tea, but we shall have to take our leave early. _Someone_ seems to have decided to _wear_ the bottom of the pond and now needs a bath!" the threads of warmth and amusement were thick through Narcissa's lilting voice.

"NO baths! NO Momma! No! WON'T!"

There was a beat of silence and Thoros could feel their eyes on him. He refused to acknowledge them. Acknowledging them would require looking away from the girl, and he wasn't able to do that quite yet. Calla swept in to cover for him. "Of course! We simply _must_ do this again sometime soon! Theo, your papa is having another one of his conversations with your sister, won't you help me walk your friend to the door? Theo. Ven comigo, por favor. Ahora **[come with me, please. Now.]**."

The room fell silent around him as he grappled desperately with what he was witnessing. Hermione stared up at him, hope and fear mingling in her eyes, the feelings seeming to stab through his very heart as their magical auras mingled. She was three! How could he feel her this strongly?! How could he not have noticed this before!?

He could feel Calla and Theo's auras when he touched them, of course, and sometimes when they were upset enough he didn't _have_ to touch them, but feeling the aura of someone he wasn't bonded to, especially this strongly and with someone this _young_ , was unheard of. Raw neutral magic was practically undetectable. It was the reason so many muggle borns could function in the world and only be thought of as vaguely odd. Once the child was aware of their magic and able to control it, the aura became more palpable. At that point, the child was also trained to secrecy, so it hardly mattered... For the little mud- Hermione- to have _this_ strong an aura this early when they had no connection…

Thank Merlin she wasn't in the muggle world! She'd've shattered the Statute of Secrecy by simply existing. His hand moved to stroke the little girl's head. He looked up at Calla's smug expression when she returned with Theo. He barely acknowledged the sass in her eyes, so lost in wonder. "It's like she was made for us. She feels like Theodore… Like she's… _mine_..." Calla smiled, her dark eyes dancing.

"I've noticed."

Thoros barely spared her a glare for her tone, his eyes riveted on the little girl standing shyly on his knees, dripping pond water all over his trousers. The power she presented… the potential… if she was bound to them… the opportunities for his House… Calla cut him off. "I know that look, Thoros Nott. Don't you _**dare**_ treat my daughter like a pawn. She's a little _girl,_ not an _opportunity_ to take advantage of."

Thoros was temporarily lost to reality. He wanted her for his House. As he stared into the little girl's wide nervous eyes, Calla's anger barely registering for once, his mind flashed to all the possibilities she presented… Until he felt her magic flutter against his again.

For the second time in not enough space, Thoros felt like he'd been stabbed. Her magic was so cautiously hopeful. He'd never touched her before. She could see that his expression didn't hold the usual distaste and annoyance. It made her scared in a way she didn't want to dwell on. She was three and didn't know her mind, but he was fifty-one and had spent his life knowing his and others' minds. She wanted, was desperate for, his love and acceptance.

He couldn't _not_ give it to her. "Dirby," he murmured, still staring at the girl. There was a crack at the arrival of the senior male house elf, "Please bring me the necessaries for a blood ritual. It seems I'm about to have a daughter."

~*TNT*~

Chapter 3 The Fault In Her Genes

Thoros sat in his study, boots kicked up on his desk, perusing financial and asset reports from Gringotts.

Well, at least, that was what he pretended to do.

If he was honest with himself, the words had long since run together. No, he strained to decipher what his wife's muted voice was telling his two children.

Blessed Merlin's bollocks, he had two children.

He'd just resolved to at least open the study door, for improved airflow (obviously), when he heard pattering and squealing coming down the hall. No sooner were the heavy carved mahogany doors cracked, than a dark frizzy head of his daughter exploded in and threw herself under the massive desk. Theo attempted to follow his sister as Thoros stood dumbfounded in the doorway, clutching the handle. After a sharp, "No this is MY spot, Theo! Get away," he watched his dejected and distinctly annoyed son trot right back out, throwing a dirty look at the desk and a plaintive one at his father. Thoros shrugged at the bo, she _had_ technically gotten there first and made a vague offering gesture towards the heavy velvet curtains pulled back over the picture windows across the hall. His son's melancholia evaporated into a devilish grin before whipping behind them. Thoros registered the faint sound of counting from down the hall and the brown leather toes of the house shoes Calla made Theo wear peeking out under the black curtain before he chuckled and returned to his desk.

Sitting carefully, Hermione's stern eyes promising violence if he gave her away (she also provided an aggressive 'shh' on the off chance he'd been too thick to understand), Thoros kicked his feet back up and returned to the reports.

"Estaba la rana sentada cantando debajo del agua… **[the singing frog was under the water]** " Thoros couldn't help the grin that spread over his face. Hermione gasped quietly under his desk at the tune that floated in. He glanced down at her, a finger to his lips. She nodded back her eyes wide but serious, mimicking the gesture. "Cuando la rana salio a cantar… **[when the frog came out to sing]** " She was very close now. He could hear giggling across the hall. "Vino la mosca y la hizo callar… **[the fly came and and shushed her]** "

Thoros was very aware that he was five decades old and currently petrified by a song about a singing frog getting louder. "La mosca a la rana que estaba cantando debajo del agua… **[the fly and the frog that was sitting singing under the water]** " She leaned against the doorjamb to his office, twirling her hair in feigned innocence. Thoros froze. He glanced down at Hermione and the look he received sent him right back to perusing his papers. "Cuando la mosca salio a cantar… **[when the fly came out to sing]** Hello, Darling. How is the work that was _too important_ to allow yourself to while the morning away with _us_ coming?" He glanced up at her as she sauntered toward him, soon distracted by the curls that hung forward over her shoulders, drawing his gaze downwards…

"Fine."

"Mmmhm. No one's come in to bother you, then?"

"Well, there was this one lovely young lady." Pain stabbed through the underside of hi thigh as tiny fingers found purchase despite woolen trousers. He winced. "You might know her… Tall, dark hair, lovely singing voice…" Calla grinned roguishly.

She stood up from her seductive lean on his desk and crossed her arms. "About this other woman…"

"Terribly pretty, girl," Thoros put in helpfully.

Calla mock glared. "I'm sure."

"Spanish. Just my type."

She laughed. "Fine, you horrible philanderer. I'll go look somewhere else."

He watched her go before he glanced down, his expression forbidding, "That hurt."

Hermione giggled, "No it didn't."

~*TNT*~

The noise was beyond bearable. Slamming his book shut and stomping downstairs and into the kitchen, he was momentarily distracted by his oh so distracting wife. Her hair was up today and she was dressed in one of the more traditional dresses from Andalucia. Her black lace mantilla adorned Hermione, though its attachment seemed increasingly precarious, who was chasing Theodore around the kitchen. He didn't understand the throwing motions Hermione made until a handful of uncooked rice pegged him in the stomach. Theo, for his part, was banging pots together with all his might and screaming anytime the rice hit him. Calla, her back to him, sang the frog song again by the sink. Her voice was the only non-discordant sound in the room.

"What in Merlin's name is going on in here?!" he demanded. The children froze to stare at him for a second and blissful silence reigned. Then Theo aimed a swipe at Hermione with one of his pans to which she responded with a re-invigorated rice attack that necessitated the boy's flight.

"We're making Mama Calandria's paella for Dia De Los Muertos," Calla said calmly, not turning.

"We!?"

"The children are helping."

"Dearest… They're throwing rice around and ruining Tibby's pots…"

That got her attention. "And _how_ many times have you made Mama Calandria's paella recipe?" she asked her back straightening and becoming still. He could just barely make out the rubies glinting in the carved ebony comb holding her hair up.

"None, obviously, but…"

"And _how_ do you know that they aren't, in fact, performing a _vital_ part of the recipe?"

" _Ruining_ the kitchenware is _vital_ to paella?!"

She shot him a dirty look over her shoulder before turning primly back to the counter. "Life is too short for perfect kitchenware, Thoros Octavian Nott."

~*TNT*~

It was Christmas time when Thoros found his wife sobbing at her writing desk before a veritable pile of letters. He would have written it off as her 'time' but ever since she cursed him with empathy pain their first month as a married couple (where he honestly could have been a **tad** bit more supportive…) he made sure he knew her expected 'weeks' so he could behave accordingly... This week wasn't _that_ week.

"Dearest! Has something happened? Has someone died? Why the tears?" He kept his distance, she got curse-happy during her 'time,' but she was _never_ receptive to attention when she was crying.

Sputtering and hastily wiping her face, Calla replied, "It's nothing. I'm fine. Really. Just… Just… the, uh, season… uhm, it's poignant…"

Lie. Why was she lying to him? "Of course, Dear…" he said awkwardly. Usually, Thoros thought he handled female tears well, but there was no logical reason for these tears, so there was no method of combating these tears. These were unprecedented tears. "Shall I, uh…"

"If I need you I'll find you," she snapped.

"Right then. Uh… Right." he didn't so much flee as concede ground with dignity for the preservation of female sensibilities… Ok, it was fleeing. He fled.

He had to! They were unprecedented tears! There's no _precedent_ for unprecedented tears!

~*TNT*~

It was early January and time to sit for the family portrait for Calla's mother. Calandria delighted in the moving photographs Calla always enclosed in her letters but still insisted on at least one family portrait per year. Thoros was pretty sure this was because the old harpy knew he hated standing for portraits and didn't want to visit Spain, but Calla always blew him off when he suggested such things.

In years past, the major challenge had always been keeping Theo awake and calm for the whole thing. Now it seemed keeping the two toddlers quiet and seated would be impossible.

"We could stun them," Thoros whispered out the side of his mouth to her when the little ones were reprimanded by the artist _again_.

"Thoros!" Calla hissed back.

Her husband pondered in silence for a second before offering, "Sticking charms?"

"Do I need to silence you?"

"You hate these as much as I do!"

"Commemorating the good times is important!" Did he notice the catch in her voice? She hoped not.

"Said the woman who thought portraits were stuffy the first time I showed her the Nott gallery!"

"Lord Nott!" the artist nearly whined. The Nott patriarch schooled his features and retook his pose sullenly.

Calla fought a smirk. "That's because _your_ family's portraits _are_ stuffy." he snorted and she was quiet for a moment. They were granted a reprieve so the toddlers could be led off to the bathroom, when she turned to him and said, "Someday they'll grow up and you may want these again. _Then_ you had better thank me on bended knee for having the good sense to get them done."

He shot his wife a sulky look before wandering off to the library for a book.

Calla, alone with the artist, turned to the reedy man and asked in her best Lady Nott voice, "You remember my instructions?"

"Yes, ma'am. Use the portrait to create a single of you, Lady Nott, before sending the family to House Trastamara in Spain, and the single back here…" he looked confused but willing.

"You said they'd be done and delivered…?"

"By April?"

Calla nodded and swept after her husband.

~*TNT*~

"Thoros! There you are, my love! Where have you been skulking? Oh, nevermind that! I've been working on the children's nursery with Hissy all morning. Hissy! Where'd that elf get to? She was here a moment ago…"

The Lord of Nott Manor stood in the doorway struggling harder than he should have to not feel awkward. It had been a few weeks since the mandatory family portrait, and Calla had been increasingly erratic. On day providing for her children's every real and contrived need and the next in bed, pale and coughing. She had decided that morning to make a comprehensive baby book for Hermione, like the one she'd started for Theo but quickly abandoned, despite the fact Hermione was no longer a baby and hadn't been part of the family when she _had_ been one. He knew better than to mention this to Calla, though. He leaned in the doorway of his children's nursery, wondering how to phrase what he wanted to say, as she practically danced about the room. Happiness poured off her along with a goodly amount of dust, bits of ribbon, and glitter.

She was beautiful as always but faded somehow. Her wild black hair danced around her lithe form, as usual, but the lights glinted off it differently. She wore some floaty white confection that emphasized her olive skin tone and her contrasting hair, but it hung off her shoulders rather than her curves. She'd been wearing her hair loose more and more often, but it no longer called to him. He didn't have the same need to dig his fingers through it or bury his face in it. He shook himself and wrenched away from the doorjamb. "Calla," He said, clearing his throat, "We need-"

"Yes. Yes. I know… We should iron out the details and evidence of Hermione's birth and why it didn't show up in the magical genealogical books but there is just so much else going on! We have to finish outfitting them for the trip to see Mama in Andalucia, and then there is the upcoming spring redecorating, but we can tie that in with swapping out the beds and toys… They're just growing so quickly! Have you seen Hissy? She was supposed to come back with dolls…" Calla had taken to acting as though she hadn't spent the last several weeks in and out of a sick bed 'resting'. She argued with him daily over whether or not she had the strength to run after the toddlers, despite her obvious and increasing pallor. She acted like she could make herself healthy by sheer willpower alone. She dug through a mound of a fabric and bits of half made dresses on the bed, her back to him. Thoros huffed at her inattention.

"Darling, that's not what I meant…"

"Yes. Yes. I know… But Hermione has settled in _splendidly_ , all things considered… She's a remarkably cheerful girl I wonder fi she remembers that night in September...But she and Theo get along like a daisy in summer don't you think? Of course, with all her magic we'll have to get a tutor in quickly… She knows her letters and numbers, of course, but with all that intellect it would be SUCH a shame to waste it! No Nott has EVER been dim, obviously, so even if we can't find a tutor soon, she and Theo won't truly _suffer…_ But I'd really feel safer this way. They must hold up the family reputation and Mama has been reminding me to teach them Spanish dancing, not just these horrid Northern waltzes! My papa always said dancing is the only true measure of a person… Speaking of which, Mama wants to know how many she can have greet us at the international portkey…"

"Calla stop. You've been acting strangely, lately and we are long overdue to discuss it." She froze but didn't turn. "Darling, I love you, you know that, but…" Her reaction had him trailing off before he could finish the thought.

She didn't fall, but if it's possible for a human to utterly collapse while still remaining on their feet, Thoros would have sworn that's what she did.

"Calla…?" he asked cautiously, taking a tentative step toward her. The nursery wasn't much larger than the master suite, but he suddenly felt miles away from her. His hands reached uselessly toward her waist, but her expression when she turned gave him pause. There was a single sparkle of silver glitter high on her cheekbone beneath her right eye. It was the only bright thing about her.

"You can't tell them," she whispered.

He had to choke down terror. "Tell them? The children? Calla, what's going on? What do you mean?" His voice grew louder with every question, but at her wince, he tempered his tone. She suddenly looked so lonely, standing on the blue and silver patterned carpet between the new twin beds, her mane seeming to consume her face rather than frame it.

He wasn't fully coherent of the moment, only knowing that he needed to hold her. Touch her. Reassure himself that this staggering shift in his little Spanish spitfire was real. "I didn't want you to know," she told his chest once he'd wound his arms around her.

"I _deserve_ to know. _Talk_ to me! What's happened? I'll fix it! I swear on my-"

"No!" she pulled desperately away from him, but he didn't let her get far. "You can't take such oaths, Thoros! This is something you can't fix! You'll lose your magic!"

"Then what IS it?" he growled.

"It's Shade Blight," she whispered as if saying the words aloud would somehow give them even more power. She slumped against his chest.

Silence.

"I have Shade Blight, Thoros."

"What do you _mean_ you have Shade Blight!? I would have known! All diseases affecting magical power and ability to reproduce would have been documented in matrimonial negotiations!"

"I… I didn't tell you because… It just… I…" Her voice cracked and broke off.

" _Why_?"

"Because I didn't want to believe it!" she exploded, her arms flinging wide and glitter falling softly from her sleeves. "It's supposed to only happen to _old people_! I'm twenty-five! ¡Pollas de la hostia en vinagre! When I started feeling sick I just thought it was lack of sleep or something ridiculous like that! So I mentioned it to Mama, and her response was evasive which meant it HAD to be something and lo and behold I have Shade Blight! Which is _hardly_ fair! No one _told_ me it ran in my family! Sure Grandmama and Tia Catilina died under suspicious circumstances after basically wasting away to nothing but that doesn't automatically mean _Shade Blight_! !Me _cago_ en este enfermedad **[I shit on this sickness]**! I had to write to Tia Cavella to finally get a straight answer! Then it was November and I couldn't tell _you_ because you'd lock me away in St. Mungo's, away from our children!" she was breathing hard when she added, "Away from you," so softly he almost didn't catch it.

"I wouldn't have.." but he swallowed, and she smiled knowingly. He absolutely _would_ have. He was fighting the urge to drag her to a healer even as he denied it to her face. He pulled her close once more. "Please let me help you," he murmured brokenly into her hair. "I don't want to lose you."

"You also can't keep me forever, Cariño," She whispered back, pulling away just enough to meet his eyes and run a hand over his cheek.

"What am I to do then?" he demanded the anguish in his tone and eyes a stark contrast to the half-finished gaiety of the nursery.

Calla took a deep breath and locked her dark eyes to his. "When you met me, I was a stubborn, flighty Trastamara. A young girl who didn't see the value of anything beyond the next adventure. You've helped me grow up, Thoros. You helped me grow to be Lady Nott. I'm sure you can do it again... for Hermione, and for Theodore." He nodded jerkily, tears in his eyes. She smiled and kissed them away. "There's another thing I need," she whispered to him. His whole body ached at the words.

"Name it," he whispered, not even attempting to maintain decorum.

She didn't cry, but he could see the heartbreak in her eyes. "As you know, Shade Blight is hereditary." His face darkened in frustration and impatience but she hurried on. "Yes, my family covered it up. Weakness of this magnitude… My parents knew if it got out my sisters and I would never have found… When I met you, I wanted so desperately to be married. I was eighteen and knew nothing of the realities of life. They didn't want to give you any reason not to have me," he could hear the tears in her voice but he was too shell-shocked and angry to process them, much less comfort her. His arms were slack around her waist, his jaw clenched. "When we had Theo, I was overjoyed. I didn't know about the death sentence my family had given him. And… well, you know what happened next…" she concluded sheepishly. After a moment, the frustration she couldn't keep repressed made another appearance. "But it's supposed to attack the old! Theo's three! Yet, given the evidence… Theo _still_ hasn't started showing accidental magic… His aura isn't strengthening at the rate it's supposed to… I think… I think he already-"

"Stop." Thoros cut her off. His son already suffering that horrible disease, before he'd even had a chance to _live.._. It was unthinkable.

"I'm so sorry, my love. So, so very sorry."

"So this is how I'm to lose you _and_ my son?"

"No! No, mi amor, no! It may be too late for me, but I will be **damned** if I can't save my son! No, my love, I have a plan. When I found Hermione, simply being _near_ the strength of her magic assuaged the blight that is destroying us! If we were to tie Theodore's magical core to hers…"

"A twin bond," Thoros breathed. "Will you be strong enough to survive casting it?"

"For the sake of our son, I _have_ to be."

* * *

Chapter 4 Little Things Like Latin Litanies

Thoros nearly set fire to the delicate parchment in his hands in his frustration. He'd been trying to find the perfect date with ideal magical conditions for Theodore and Hermione's bonding for hours now, ever since his wife had dropped her terrible news earlier. It had to be soon since his wife apparently faded a little more every day and his son would start fading any moment, but, infuriatingly, there were no magically significant days in the middle of February and it wasn't a leap year.

Of course, it wasn't. That would be too easy.

"Were you _ever_ planning to come to bed?" Calla asked around a yawn from the doorway of his study.

"You should be asleep." he murmured back, still upset that she hadn't told him sooner. Hadn't told him when taking her to a healer might have actually _done_ something.

She made a face. "I'm _fine_."

She realized her mistake the second it left her mouth. Setting the parchment down with the utmost delicacy, he turned eyes filled with black fire on her and folded his aristocratic hands. "Really." He seemed carved from actual ice.

She looked apologetic for a moment before advancing across the thick carpet in her satin slippers. "We could just wait 'til the Vernal Equinox… What does your family call that one? Ostara?" she asked, her small hands running over his stony shoulders and her chin on his head.

" _What_!?" he yelled, launching to his feet to pace. She stumbled back a step and rolled her eyes. He could be _such_ a drama queen about things beyond his control. "Ostara is March 21st! That's more than a month away! We _can't_ wait that long!"

"Well, are there any days of magical significance between now and then?" she asked acidly, her arms crossed and hip cocked.

"Not exactly," he grumbled, still pacing.

"Do you think we have _any_ hope of binding something as intangible as the magical cores of _three-year-olds_ without heightened environmental magic?"

He shot her a dirty look.

"So do we have any _choice_ but to wait until the Vernal Equinox?"

Again no answer.

"So is this childishness helpful?"

"CHILDISHNESS!? How DARE-"

"And is it, therefore, _necessary_ to stress your wife out with your behavior considering her condition?"

He froze, shoulders tensing, before turning to where she stood smugly behind his desk. "Fine," he finally grit out. "We'll wait until Ostara and I'll come to bed."

"Wonderful," she declared, flouncing, quite literally under his nose, out of the study.

"I hope you don't abuse this newfound power of yours," he muttered, following. The grin he received in response had him groaning. "Who am I kidding. Of _course,_ you will." At her snicker, he took off after her.

~*TNT*~

The little family stood in the west garden watching the moon on the twenty-first freezing evening in March. After a month of preparation, it was almost surreal to be in the magically saturated garden, standing on the compass rose points around the ancient blood ritual bowl of the Nott family. Thoros and Calla wore their heavy silver trimmed, black velvet, Nott ceremonial robes while Theodore and Hermione shivered in white and red silk. Calla's face alone was visible under the hood, but she looked ashen. The few wisps of hair that had escaped their knot hung limply as her eyes flicked nervously to her children and she murmured another warming charm.

Thoros shot her another hard look. "No extraneous magic contaminating the space, Calla. We're trying to _bind_ them not make them breathe fire."

"For someone so determined to keep them alive, one would _think_ you'd be more supportive of them not _freezing to death_ before we can save them!" she hissed back. The toddlers whimpered, hugging themselves. Their father had been adamant that they weren't allowed to touch until he said so.

Thoros and Calla stood directly across from each other on either side of a shallow, roughly cut crystal bowl. Necessary herbs, such as albahaca and bloodroot, were arranged around it in smaller, carved ebony bowls. Theodore stood on the north side of the central bowl, his sister, oddly still, on the south. The crystal bowl glowed once moon finally reached its zenith. The adults immediately raised their arms, gloved wrists crossing before each toddler, and started the ancient Latin litany.

" _Factus est sanguis._

 _Duabus animabus fieri anima._

 _Amodo usque in sempiternum vinctum._

 _Fratrem et sororem, adhuc magis._

 _Et cor unum et magica._

 _Magicae purus noctis liquidae veritatis Eois._

 _Et firmabit virtutem suam, et infirmitatem suam minuere._

 _Maximum sanguinis, Fabulam nativitate eorum._

 _Verum in mundo, veritas._

 _Custodivit in eius familia semper._

 _Tenetur sanguine et terra verba ex nostris, non liceat immutari_ _._ "

The two continued to chant the spell as the magic thickened around them.

A darkly shimmering presence wove around the family. Theodore sobbed, clutching at his chest and head in turn. Calla and Thoros, though aware of their son's distress, stared in anguish at each other, knowing the danger of breaking such wild magic off before it had run course. A warm orange grew from both toddlers and wove through the raw, shimmering magic. Thoros' mouth twisted and he raised an eyebrow at his wife. She blushed, the first color to touch her cheeks in days. Had her jaw not been clenched against the strain, lines not been carved around her eyes, and what little hair he could see not been turning white, he would have been delighted.

The litany seemed to run together, exhaustion making the Latin curdle and run on their tongues. Thoros could feel Hermione's magic thrumming strong on his right. He'd planted himself in the anchor position, the first to face the dawn that always complicated his family's magic. Hermione was on the South point of the compass, the anchor position for the binding pair, facing North to symbolically combat the unforgiving cold and dark of Northern England where the Notts originated. Her blood binding from early October still too fresh for her to be safely positioned with it at her back- or 'allied' with the family's origins. The arrangement left Theodore facing south to welcome any warmth or strength the sun may consent to give born of its loyalty to his mother's family while being supported by the Nott family's historic allegiance to the darkness. Merlin, it was all so fussy, but so vital, he thought, watching his little Calla's brow furrow and shoulders hunch. They'd agreed, after extensive cajoling on his part, that it was only _logical_ she take the weakest spot, as he needed her to stay strong for as long as she could to solidify the binding. She faced west to embrace the darkness she'd married into (though she'd never taken to it quite like his first wife…) with the promise of coming dawn to prop her up from behind. Her wand, held in her left (casting) hand, closest to her sunny origins and her right, the one that always gripped his in public or ritual settings, next to her son. His wand, by comparison, on the North side (from whence his magic originated) gripped in his casting hand before his son and his right hand (that had to deal with outsiders in handshakes etc) before his adopted daughter.

With the family magic summoned and attentive, Thoros nodded to Calla and the couple touched their wands to their children's chests, directly over their hearts, careful to remain in contact but without skin touching the whole time. Thus directed, the dark shimmer of Nott magic rose around the quartet, and, like a wave reaching its crest, fell into the exaggerated oval formed by the joined arms, flowing first through Thoros, then Theodore, then Calla, then finally, Hermione. It was no longer visible, but every time it passed through one of the children, they seemed to be faintly illuminated. The faint blinking effect sped until the two glowed evenly, signifying that their cores had been identified and connected. Desperate, Thoros proceeded to the next step, unwilling to acknowledge how hard Calla was panting and the fact that her arms shook visibly.

" _Fortis Sanguinem_ ," he intoned. A three-inch slash appeared across Hermione's chest. It was a straight line beginning beneath her left collarbone and continuing at a 45-degree angle across her sternum. The blood that would have stained the white under robe trickled and undulated through the air before falling into the crystal bowl. It glowed brightly for a moment then dimmed to a dull throb. Hermione gasped but remained still as previously instructed. Thoros had to swallow a bubble of pride. " _Infirmata est sanguis_ ," He said, suddenly uneasy. The cut that appeared across Theodore's chest mirrored Hermione's. Three inches long, beginning below the left collarbone and proceeding across the sternum. The blood that oozed from the wound seemed to coagulate in the cold night air. It was a slightly darker color than Hermione's and it moved sluggishly. Horrified at the blatant confirmation of his son's and wife's situation, Thoros locked eyes with Calla rather watch his son's blood mingle with Hermione's in the bowl at his feet. Calla smiled weakly, her hair already faded to perfect white, the bones of her face straining against translucent skin. He swallowed and choked out, " _Ipsi inter se iunguntur in aeternum_ " The crystal bowl began to rise slowly, the blood samples inside swirling counterclockwise as bits of herbs from the previously set out bowls threw themselves into the depths of the concoction. " _Sub eorum domus_ ," he concluded quietly. The bowl glowed red then black then a blinding white. "Theodore first."

The little boy, now nearly as pale as his mother nodded and reached for the bowl that floated placidly toward him. After an encouraging nod from his father and a terrified glance at his mother, he lifted the bowl to his lips and drank.

"Now Hermione."

The bowl floated away from Theo, who looked distinctly unhappy with the aftertaste, toward the bushy haired girl who stared it down in stark determination. They'd been receiving instruction on this moment for almost a month. Both children could have recited the proceedings and importance back to their father perfectly- and had been able to for about five days now. It would have been utterly terrifying for them both, no doubt, if their mother hadn't been there as well, cooing over them and comforting them while they practiced.

The little girl finished the contents of the bowl and let go, watching as it settled sedately back in the grass. Thoros watched it carefully, all the while monitoring the dissipating flow of magic around him. Theo's aura had strengthened palpably when he'd released the bowl, but the undercurrents were different. It wasn't until Hermione released it, her own aura flashing in acceptance of the change, that the Nott patriarch was able to take a breath. His two children's auras were identical and pulsating with strength.

For the first time in centuries, the Notts had twins.

Thoros luxuriated in the knowledge that he'd saved his son for all of two seconds before he was distracted by a shuddering gasp.

Calla had collapsed.

* * *

Chapter 5 Goodbyes and Hellos

Calla tried desperately to relax back into the pillows. Dulcey, her personal elf since childhood, was playing with Hermione on the rug before the merrily burning fireplace. Her daughter, her son's freshly minted twin, seemed to tolerate the chipper elf more than anything. Thoros had whisked Theo off shortly after apparating them all back to the manor and seeing her settled, to run diagnostics on him. With her health at an all-time low, she knew, he was paranoid their efforts had been for naught.

Another wracking shiver surged through her, triggering a coughing spell that left her eyes watering and her voice hoarse. Opening her eyes, she came face to face with her beautiful little miracle. Her Hermione. The little girl's brow was furrowed, her wide gold brown eyes fearful.

"Momma?" she whispered, her little hands brushing over Calla's cheeks and through her hair. She managed a weak smile, one that didn't seem to soothe her daughter.

"Todo está bien, Querida," she whispered. Hermione's nose scrunched and Calla couldn't help but laugh. The sounds devolved into another coughing fit that sent Hermione to the brink of tears. Calla couldn't bear the sight. She tried to smile, weakly, running a hand over the little girl's mane of curls. No matter how much Hissy and Dulcey hinted, Calla wouldn't hear of cutting them. With all the magic the girl had endured, their riotousness was the only thing she'd been able to keep from her former life. "I need you to go with Dulcey, Hermione. You didn't sleep last night. You need a nap."

"No!" she wailed, tears finally spilling over and her little face growing blotchy red. Hermione snuggled aggressively into her side, it hurt, but Calla didn't notice. Nothing could hurt as badly as her heart in that moment. Hermione continued a litany of 'no's and other muffled expressions of disapproval until Calla couldn't help another weak smile. She wound her shaking arms around the little girl and called softly to Dulcey.

"Madama llama Dulcey?" The elf was still relatively young, her skin a healthy olive toned green and her ears lacking any hint of droop. Calla appreciated that the little elf knew not to apparate to her side given her increased sensitivity to loud noises. Dulcey stood close to the bedside, opposite the still crying Hermione. At the sound of her native Andalucian dialect, Calla couldn't suppress a rush of affection for the little elf.

She stretched a weak hand out to Dulcey, which the elf immediately clutched to her thin chest. "Por favor, tráeme mi esposo y mijo. No estoy segura de cuánto tiempo tengo."

Dulcey, tears slipping from her huge green eyes down her little pug nose, whimpered but nodded. "Si, Madama," she whispered, kissing her mistress's hand once before toddling out of the Master Bedroom to apparate.

Calla sighed and curled her body around the little girl whimpering into her neck. Unconsciously, she began to sing the lullaby her own mother had sung when she had night terrors while her spider thin hands ran through the younger girl's curls. Calandria had always loathed the thought of house elves comforting her daughters. Calla wished she'd been able to see her daughter's first meeting with her mother.

Before she could wallow too much in that thought, there was the telltale pop of apparation in the hall and suddenly Thoros was striding toward her. Theo followed, his blue eyes wide and fearful, flashing from his father to his mother, to his new twin and back. Calla's heart clenched in her chest. Offering her son a smile, she reached toward him. She was afraid to look at her husband, knowing what she would find in his eyes. Theo clambered to the side Hermione hadn't claimed and huddled against her. Tears flowed freely from Calla's eyes at the strong thrum of magic, nearly identical to Hermione's, under her soothing strokes on the boy's back.

Thoros exhaled through his nose in a futile attempt to calm down. He'd never seen Calla look so deathly pale. Not even when she'd almost bled out giving birth to Theo. "Leave us, Dulcey," he murmured.

The elf choked back a sob and disapparated, too distressed to toddle from the room first. Calla glanced up at the sound, her lullaby fading off. Thoros's heart broke at the poorly hidden fear in her eyes. He'd known this was coming for a month. He'd promised himself he'd remain composed, that he'd distance himself from excessive and futile displays of emotion.

His good intentions evaporated now that the moment had arrived.

Thoros mechanically sat on the edge of the bed, his wand hand running over Hermione's now black curls (courtesy of the twin bond, he presumed), and stared into Calla's eyes. She didn't calm as much as he would have liked at the eye contact, but she didn't look away, either.

"You aren't angry?" she whispered.

"Would you have me be so?" Thoros replied. She didn't reply but her gaze was nervous. He sighed. "When you first told me, yes, I was angry. Extremely angry, in fact. But right now... " he swallowed and had to close his eyes for a moment to compose himself. "My feelings aren't important right now. They won't change anything. They won't help you… No, I'm not angry now. Just… resigned, I believe."

"You're skipping steps in the grieving process, you cheater."

That tricked a laugh out of him. Well, more a bemused exhalation from his nose and a small smirk. "Rules are for lesser men. Not for Notts."

"There's the man I love. The twins are in good hands."

"No… The is far too much blood on these hands for them to be good… No, the good hands are leaving them."

"He died. The little boy from the papers- Harry Potter- killed him Samhain before last. There's no one, now, who can stop you from being the man you truly are. No one to control you. To threaten our children."

"Calla, I thought we settled this…"

"He won't come back."

"There were hints he took steps…"

"You can beat many things, Thoros Octavian. Death and love are not among them." he smiled wanly, stealing her hand from his son's back and placing a kiss on it briefly. The boy he knew in school, who he became afterward… they would not be deterred by such silly things as death and love.

"Who am I to question brilliance," he murmured against her skin.

She smirked at him. "Nothing is more deceitful than the appearance of humility."

"My greatest sin, Calla, has always been that I have a wonderful time being myself."

"It's why I love you," She whispered back, her eyes falling closed for the last time.

* * *

 **THIS IS STILL NOT TWINS CANON. YOU'LL NOTICE I CHANGED UP A FEW KEY POINTS OF DIALOGUE TO CATER TO MY NEW CHARACTERIZATIONS (SPECIFICALLY FOR THOROS). THIS IS ONLY BECAUSE I LOVE SLYTHERINFLOWER AND EVERYONE HAS BEEN MISSING CALLA.**

 **THANK YOU.**


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